


Popsicle

by ruthvsreality



Series: Matters of National Security [2]
Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Office Sex, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22192585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruthvsreality/pseuds/ruthvsreality
Summary: Insert joke about being sweet, wet, and/or taken into one's mouth here.
Relationships: Alyssa Mastromonaco/Tommy Vietor
Series: Matters of National Security [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1739212
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29





	Popsicle

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed. Fourth wall, etc. Be nice.

“If you’re going to keep giggling like that we’ll get caught,” Tommy says, loosening his tie and shrugging his jacket off.    
  
“It’s hard not to! Not when you get all - intense.” Alyssa gestures at Tommy’s body, at his bright eyes, at the pink in his cheeks.    
  
“I’m not  _ intense, _ ” Tommy argues, pushing her back onto the couch, his ankles dangling off the side as he crawls on top of her. They’ll have to reposition themselves for the main event. “I just want you really fuckin’ badly.  _ Intense  _ makes me sound like I’m a serial killer.”    
  
He pauses to kiss her, wet and sweet and full of passion. Jesus, she loves his mouth. Warm and slick and clever.    


“I can handle a few serial killer vibes,” Alyssa replies, nodding seriously. It’s true; she can’t help but shudder and squirm in delight whenever Tommy pins her down and growls  _ no one can do what I can do to you  _ or  _ fuck, you need me so fucking badly  _ or other deliciously creepy shit that would be awful outside of the bedroom.    
  
Tommy just tilts his head slightly, considering this, worrying his lip between his teeth. “I mean, I guess? Really weird way of putting it.” He ducks down and kisses at Alyssa’s neck, moving up to suck lightly behind her jawline by her ear. His breath is warm on her skin; she holds him tighter and pretends they’re somewhere far away from the clinical air conditioning of her West Wing office. 

“Shut up and eat my pussy,” Alyssa implores, pushing at his shoulders. “Isn’t that what you’re here for?”    
  
When they first started doing this, Tommy’s expression had been almost frantic, wild with wonder and excitement and near-desperation at getting to eat Alyssa out. Now he looks more like a lion about to enjoy the spoils of a hunt.    
  
“Bossy,” Tommy whispers. He pushes her skirt up, up, up, and then tugs at her panties, past her stockings, tossing them aimlessly onto the floor so he can grip at her thighs and push them over his shoulders.    
  
“You love it,” Alyssa teases back.    
  
Tommy does. Alyssa knows damn well Tommy loves it, because otherwise he wouldn’t have so much enthusiasm for it. His mouth is wet and warm, and his tongue curls around her clit like it’s saying  _ welcome.  _ He’s gentle, coaxing. Normally he might be more exploratory, but they’re in the White House and they only have so much time. So he simply slides over her folds, lapping up wetness and sucking at her labia gently.    


It’s easy not to giggle, here. Not as easy to keep quiet in other fashions. But Alyssa doesn’t make a peep. She’s done this before, after all.    
  
His hands are so big on her thighs, and she can feel the sweat from his palms, and she can see his blush spread across his face, even over his cheekbones, and his blonde hair stand out in contrast, appearing almost white. She slides her fingers into his locks and admires how soft they are for the millionth time.    
  
Tommy hums against her pussy, his eyes sliding shut, until she can’t see his baby blues anymore. Sometimes she swears he’s in more ecstasy than she is when he does this.    
  
And then his tongue moves up over her clit, over and over and  _ over  _ in quick motions, and it’s not easy to make that claim anymore.    
  
“Ah -  _ ah -”  _ Alyssa nods and manages to flash a thumbs-up to Tommy before she comes with a soft sigh. It’s not big or earth shattering; it doesn’t need to be. It feels damn good and now she’s all loose and tingly. A perfect afternoon delight, as they say. Do they say that? Who cares.    
  
Tommy doesn’t move, staying between her legs, his mouth hovering inches from her cunt. He remains there, pressing a kiss or two to her now swollen clit.    
  
“Your face is all wet,” Alyssa teases with a grin, catching her breath. Tommy grins back at her.    
  
“I can’t imagine why. Say, uh - what is your Secret Service nickname, again?”    


Alyssa can’t really kick him from this position, but she does nudge him with her heel indignantly.    
  
“I am not a dessert, Tommy!”    
  
“No,” Tommy replies, “just very lickable.”   


**Author's Note:**

> Alyssa's Secret Service codename was "Popsicle", apparently because she thought it'd be funny to have the Secret Service say that, which it is.


End file.
